Mr. Barbecue-Smith was gone. The motor had whirled him away to the station; a faint smell of burning oil commemorated his recent departure. A considerable detachment had come into the courtyard to speed him on his way; and now they were walking back, round the side of the house, towards the terrace and the garden. They walked in silence; nobody had yet ventured to comment on the departed guest. “Well?” said Anne at last, turning with raised inquiring eyebrows to Denis. “Well?” It was time for someone to begin. Denis declined the invitation; he passed it on to Mr Scogan. “Well?” he said. Mr. Scogan did not respond; he only repeated the question, “Well?” It was left for Henry Wimbush to make a pronouncement. “A very agreeable adjunct to the week-end,” he said. His tone was obituary. They had descended, without paying much attention where they were going, the steep yew-walk that went down, under the flank of the terrace, to the pool. The house towered above them, immensely tall, with the whole height of the built-up terrace added to its own seventy feet of brick façade. The perpendicular lines of the three towers soared up, uninterrupted, enhancing the impression of height until it became overwhelming. They paused at the edge of the pool to look back. “The man who built this house knew his business,” said Denis. “He was an architect.” “Was he?” said Henry Wimbush reflectively. “I doubt it. The builder of this house was Sir Ferdinando Lapith, who flourished during the reign of Elizabeth. He inherited the estate from his father, to whom it had been granted at the time of the dissolution of the monasteries; for Crome was originally a cloister of monks and this swimming-pool their fish-pond. Sir Ferdinando was not content merely to adapt the old monastic buildings to his own purposes; but using them as a stone quarry for his barns and byres and outhouses, he built for himself a grand new house of brick--the house you see now.” He waved his hand in the direction of the house and was silent, severe, imposing, almost menacing, Crome loomed down on them. “The great thing about Crome,” said Mr. Scogan, seizing the opportunity to speak, “is the fact that it’s so unmistakably and aggressively a work of art. It makes no compromise with nature, but affronts it and rebels against it. It has no likeness to Shelley’s tower, in the ‘Epipsychidion,’ which, if I remember rightly--“ “‘Seems not now a work of human art, But as it were titanic, in the heart Of earth having assumed its form and grown Out of the mountain, from the living stone, Lifting itself in caverns light and high.’